


Sporus

by graiai



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Loyalty Kink, M/M, Meaningless Consent, Medical Examination, Medical Kink, Misusing Classical Roman Sex Politics for Fun and Profit, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Nonconathon Treat, Speculum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:00:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25212052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graiai/pseuds/graiai
Summary: The second time this month Ignis is led to the medical wing’s procedure room, one of the white cabinets has been left ajar.
Relationships: Regis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia, background Noctis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 5
Kudos: 61
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Sporus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lagerstatte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lagerstatte/gifts).



> *squeezes in just before the end of the anon period*

The second time this month Ignis is led to the medical wing’s procedure room, one of the white cabinets has been left ajar, the latch of its twin’s lock extended so only one of them can be closed at any given time. The last time he’d been here, they’d all been closed. Now he can see the neatly labelled rows of equipment: metal tools on the uppermost shelf, speculums, clamps, and other tools Ignis can’t name or think of an obvious use for; on the center shelf, sterile single-use packets of scalpels, IV catheters, gloves, and other things too small in their boxes to identify; on the lowest, plastic packs of 4x4 gauze and a row of potion bottles, perhaps a dozen in total. 

He hadn’t known they kept any stocked in these rooms. Most any situation urgent enough to require a potion was either dealt with outside any medical setting, or would be happening in an operating room. None had been used last time—the doctor had stitched him up with a perfectly mundane suture kit, instructed him on the proper care of wound dressing, and the fact nothing was said about pain management had hung heavy in the air. Ignis hadn’t dared ask, not with the King in attendance. The sting of seeing those potion bottles in their neat, untouched rows has nothing and everything to do with the way the wound still smarts. Ignis almost wishes he didn’t know they were there now, so close, sitting in an open, unlocked cabinet. Utterly untouchable. He almost wants to pretend they aren’t there, or he hasn’t noticed them. 

But he can’t stop staring at the cabinet, knowing there must be longing in his eyes. At least if Ignis is preoccupied by the potions, he cannot look anywhere in the direction of the King. 

Regular physical examinations are mandatory both for school and the Crownsguard; Ignis is perfectly familiar with being escorted to an examination room, handed a scratchy gown, and left alone behind a curtain just long enough to strip down and tie the gown on—left hardly modest, but not _bare_. But just as last time, there is no gown folded neatly on the exam table, and just as last time, neither the doctor nor the King himself makes any indication they will leave or even turn away when Ignis is given the order to strip. 

Last time, what there _had_ been, at least, was a thick, blue cloth sitting atop a steel tray beside the table: sterile drapes, Ignis had learned, when a nurse laid them across his abdomen and thighs. The specific exposure had then felt nearly unbearable. Now, as he strips out of his clothes with as much professionalism as he can muster, Ignis feels a pang of wistfulness for _anything_ which could hide him. 

He sits down on the edge of the exam table, careful not to touch the metal stirrups on either side, and even more careful to keep his eyes turned, fixed on the gleam of the bright-white overhead lamp reflecting off polished metal instruments. The King sits in a visitor’s chair only a few feet away, and Ignis can feel him staring, expectant even though Ignis has done everything ordered—requested—of him, quickly and without complaint. What more he wants, Ignis doesn’t know, and nor does he want to. 

“Into the stirrups, the same as last time,” the doctor says, and cheeks burning, Ignis obeys, moving quickly to cover his trepidation. Last time, he’d known what awaited him when he slipped his feet into the straps and laid back. Now, the lamp focused between his legs is bright but not nearly so focused, and there’s no tray of sterile equipment beside the table, within easy reach for the doctor sitting between his spread legs. At least that suggests this is not a second procedure, to upgrade castration to emasculation. 

He hopes. He _prays_. Though, should the King indeed decide Ignis doesn’t need his cock to satisfy Noct, he could hardly say no. 

Head resting on the cool table, Ignis can hear the doctor pull on gloves and the King rising from his seat. He wishes, uselessly, that he could see what they were doing as well. The first brush of the doctor’s fingers—cool, dry nitrile against sensitive skin—has Ignis snapping his knees shut against all better judgement. He can feel the weight of the King’s unimpressed stare, and blinks back the tears welling in his own eyes as he forces himself to spread his legs again. 

When the doctor had first positioned the clamp, the nurse assisting him had had to pry Ignis’ knees back apart. After that, he kept his legs parted, though he couldn’t keep them from shaking. When the procedure began he couldn’t stop himself from crying, either, but did manage to stay silent. “I have to admit, I expected better of you,” had been the King’s only comment after the last suture had been tied. 

Ignis could not so terribly fail the Crown again. The King’s murmured “Very good,” when Ignis clutches the backs of his own thighs just above the knee to hold them apart is dizzying for how grateful he feels to hear it. 

“Healing well,” the doctor notes, tugging at the plane of skin now beneath Ignis’ cock. It pulls painfully at the stitches. “No sign of infection.” 

“Then there’s no need for magical healing,” the King surmises, and Ignis swallows down his bitterness. So much of his energy in the past weeks has been dedicated to keeping Noct from insisting he drink some cloyingly chemical energy drink sparking with magic. _You put out your hip or something, grandpa?_ when he’d first seen how gingerly Ignis held himself fast became _Specs, seriously, are you, like—okay?_ But Noct couldn’t know what was wrong, or he would try to fix it, and then—Ignis didn’t know what would happen, only that Noct would want to confront his father. Ignis couldn’t bear him threatening his own station over Ignis’ own—as he has been told again and again—choice. 

He guesses he’ll be left alone today afterward, too, to compose and dress himself before returning to his duties. Ignis could steal one of the potions out of the unlocked cabinet so easily, once he’s left alone… but if he does, the doctor will surely notice, and then King could claim it proves his unworthiness to serve the Crown. To serve Noct. _He_ will one day—sooner than Ignis wants to think about—endure the Ring of the Lucii; his wife must be able to bear that magnitude of pain to lessen his burden. 

In service to his King, to Noctis, 114th of a sacred, unbroken line—Ignis will bear it. He will carefully not think on what it means that this arrangement was offered to him at all. He can (has) been made sterile, but cannot in any case bear Noct an heir. 

As the doctor’s gloved fingers pull away, a bare hand takes their place, thumbing over the sutured incision. The King’s hand. Ignis’ breath catches in his throat and his thighs are so tense his legs shake beneath his hands, fighting his body to keep them still. Ignis exhales tightly, forcing himself to relax as his lungs empty; he has gotten in the habit over the last twelve years of thinking of himself as Noct’s, but he isn’t really. Not yet. For now, and perhaps forever, Ignis Scientia belongs to the Crown. 

“Very good,” the King says. Ignis doesn’t know if he means the neat line of the scar, or _him_. Either way, it is the same impassive tone which met Ignis’ decision—if it can be called that. 

Since Noct’s sixteenth had come and gone—and plans begun for his marriage in earnest—his attachment to Ignis had become a growing source of consternation for the court. The ever-sharpening insistence Noct take the matter of his future wife seriously took a serious toll on his mood, and with it all Ignis’ hopes of keeping Noct focused on schoolwork and training. Left to his own whims Noct spent every evening playing games with Prompto, and increasingly _at_ Prompto’s, where Ignis could not so much as make sure he ate. 

He understood the pressure Noct was under, as much as anyone else could: the Lucis Caelums, with their unbroken bloodline millennia in the making, are forbidden what is commonplace in the rest of the world, and even the rest of the Crown City. “It isn’t fair,” Noct had once complained, and Ignis suspects he exaggerated the whine to cover up genuine sorrow. “ _Prompto_ can marry whoever he wants. Even Gladio could. He’d just have to adopt kids. I can’t…” He’d trailed off there, but brushed his hand against Ignis’ on the table, and Ignis had quickly found something to busy himself at the counter. 

And yet, though Ignis remained careful not to reciprocate in word or deed, Noct’s pining was obvious to the Citadel staff, and one day Ignis was called before the King and quite plainly told, “My son has intentions toward you.” It was not a question. 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Ignis said, and then again after being delivered a lecture on the importance of the King of Lucis having not a lover but a queen, abiding to the constraints placed upon him by the Crystal and by tradition. Ignis had known all this: known that the domesticity he and Noct enjoyed was necessarily temporary, that after Noct graduated high school they would be forced to assume their proper places—and that, for Noct, this would entail a wife and heir. 

“I’d hoped his little crush would fade with time,” the King said. To be completely honest, Ignis had as well. It would have been better if it did. Noct had a duty to his country, and Ignis in turn a duty to him: he couldn’t bear to see Noct unhappy, wanting a relationship they could never have. “But it seems it’s the hand we’ve been dealt, and that leaves you with a choice, Ignis.” 

“Your Majesty?” 

“You may choose exile. You may refuse him,” and the King cut off Ignis’ protest with a calm, “As he grows older, Noct will realize a broken heart isn’t the end of the world. He’ll move on.” 

Ignis nearly said, _With all respect, Your Majesty, you don’t know your son,_ and then was so horrified with himself for thinking it he forgot to say anything at all. 

“Or,” said the King, “the necessary steps can be taken in order for you to become his wife. I’ll allow you a few days to think on your decision.” 

“I’ve made up my mind.” 

It could barely be called a choice. Ignis doesn’t regret it. He only worries about how Noct will react, once he finds out—if he will think it a terrible sacrifice, worthy of pity, or worse, disgust. Eventually he’ll realize this was the best option—their only option—but Ignis selfishly hopes to delay the inevitable fallout as long as he can. Noct won’t look at him the same way, once he knows. 

The doctor having declared his healing satisfactory, and that proclamation being witnessed by the King, Ignis expects he’ll be summarily dismissed. But without further instruction the doctor goes to the open cabinet, sorting through the supplies. He chooses something metal that Ignis can’t yet see, as well as something small off the bottom shelf, and a new pair of gloves. 

The doctor retakes his place between Ignis’ legs and busies his hands with the gloves and something else. Ignis counts his breaths in anticipation, and inevitably something cold and wet presses at his entrance—the doctor’s fingers. He does little more than touch, pressure no more than what he’d used to examine the incision, but he moves on swiftly. He had seemed impatient when he had performed the procedure, but Ignis only thought that like most men he found it distasteful. Now it seems it is only his manner. 

He feels something else, as wet but much colder, drawing a shiver up his spine. “Tell me when it begins to feel uncomfortable,” serves as the doctor’s only explanation of what awaits. Ignis can imagine little more _uncomfortable_ than holding his legs open in stirrups for the King himself to witness what he now lacks, and what manner of—training, it must be—he is about to be put through. The doctor will mean _tell me when you can’t bear the pain_. 

Ignis would call his pain tolerance high, and higher even than he would have thought only a few weeks ago, and he cannot afford to have the King thinking him weak, so he swallows down his gasp when the blunt steel pushes inside. 

It doesn’t hurt yet, not really, but there are tears pricking at the corners of Ignis’ eyes all the same. He wasn’t—‘saving himself’, at least not consciously, but he must somewhere have believed the first thing inside him should have been Noct’s fingers, or at least his own _for_ Noct. The cold, unfeeling metal is beyond uncomfortable: it feels _wrong_. This shouldn’t be happening, he shouldn’t be here, the _King_ shouldn’t be here, watching a doctor open him up. 

Dread gathers in Ignis’ belly at the worry, for the first time, that he watch as well when their marriage—should Noct still wish it—is consummated. 

The speculum does not press deeply, or at least nowhere as deeply as he’s imagined Noct will. He steadies his breaths. This much he can bear. 

But the doctor in his efficiency grants him little time before beginning the process of opening it, necessarily slow, wavering minutely but nonetheless relentless. Spreading him apart it is even colder, allowing the procedure room’s cold air _into_ him, the metal not yet growing warm though his rim feels so, so hot as it is stretched. 

Too quickly, it starts to hurt. Ignis can’t say anything or let the pain show on his face, not yet. The King may very well be looking for signs of weakness, signs he’s unfit for the duty for which he’s been honored by even the consideration. Ignis breathes: inhale four seconds, hold seven, exhale eight. He blinks back his tears, and holds his tongue until he no longer can, the speculum wrenching a soft cry from his lips. 

“Too much?” the doctor asks. Ignis nods jerkily, eyes shut tight, but the pressure doesn’t go away. Instead, it steadies as the doctor affixes something, some mechanism so that it remains holding him open when he lets go of the instrument, and the Archaean may have well shaken the earth for all Ignis feels small jarring motion that makes inside him. 

“This won’t be long,” says the doctor, and from someone else it might have been an apology. He just sounds annoyed. “I only have to take measurements.” 

It hurts, it _hurts_ and Ignis knows he’s felt worse—broken bones and torn ligaments and the scalpel that took his balls without so much as a swab of topical lidocaine beforehand all far more objectively painful. But those he’d expected: the Crownsguard even required signing a waiver acknowledging the risk of injury, even severe. His castration, as laughable a choice as it was, he had still affirmed. He had still shown up on the day it was scheduled, when he could have packed a bag and left. 

But injuries were _quick_ , the pain sudden and terrible but then fading into a throbbing sort of manageable misery. _This_ was pressure ever-increasing even as he knows—can _feel_ that the doctor has not taken hold of the speculum to stretch him yet further, perhaps thinking he could endure more if he were given a moment. This was being pinned apart, held open at his most vulnerable, without warning, without a chance to decide for himself he would bear it. 

A simple screw holds the speculum in place, metal—no longer cold—keeping Ignis exposed as the doctor brings up some tool to measure the gape of his hole. It’s probably not a tape measure—he thinks it is metal against metal that he hears—but he can’t make himself look between his legs to confirm it, and it’s the only thing he can imagine. It’s sort of terribly funny, the idea of the diameter of his asshole being checked with a tape measure like an inseam, scrawled down in a little notebook for a tailor’s reference. 

Ignis doesn’t laugh, but the muscles in his abdomen tense and his exhale forces its way out hitching through his nostrils. Tears burn his eyes. His hole pulses around the speculum, and it _hurts_. Ignis wants it out of him, wants the King to never touch him again, wants the speculum to never have gone inside of him in the first place. Ignis wants Noct and nothing else. 

He can’t imagine Noct seeing him like this. It’s horrible. 

The King’s hand ghosts along the inside of Ignis’ thigh, the touch almost incidental. Ignis forces his eyes open, and he’s looking at Ignis’ hole. “Certainly won’t be lacking for magic,” he says—and Ignis remembers the rumors about how the Kingsglaive are granted their abilities for service to the Crown: _you mean_ in _service to the Crown?_ someone always jokes, tastelessly. There’s amusement in the King’s voice, but something else, too, something Ignis can’t read. 

The doctor’s shoulders between Ignis’ spread legs had displaced the King, come to stand beside the exam table at Ignis’ side, and the relief of the speculum being gradually loosened is overshadowed by the way the King looms over him. Ignis’ gaze falls to the crotch of the King’s trousers, and he can see the hard line of his cock under the neatly pressed black wool. 

Ignis can only hope Noct finds him nearly so attractive. 

The doctor does not close the speculum fully, he doesn’t think, nor does it slip free from his hole when it is pulled out. Ignis’ legs spasm in the table’s stirrups, and his neck jerks taut on instinct—the warmed metal drags against sensitive, overworked flesh, too much of the lube dried up from the horrible exposure to the cool, circulating air. 

The doctor sets the speculum in a basin on the countertop Ignis had not previously taken any notice of, and rifles through a drawer before selecting a plug, showing it to Ignis. Ignis looks, but cannot think past how— _loose_ his hole feels, tender and sore and used like Ignis has imagined it must feel after you’ve been fucked. It seems that shouldn't be possible for how short the minutes, probably, he was made to keep it inside him. 

He the doctor—presumably—explains how to use the plug to maintain this state, how long he’s supposed to be keeping it inside of him every day. Ignis pays no attention. When he looks at the plug, all he can see is the King’s hard-on. When he tries to listen to the doctor, all he hears is the King’s voice saying _the necessary steps_. 

He’d agreed before knowing them. He didn’t need to know what they were to be sure it was his choice—but he wants and dreads to know: what more the King will have done to him, what more Ignis will be expected to do to himself. 

The King dismisses the doctor with a curt order, who sets the plug down on the countertop and says, respectfully, “Your Majesty,” sketching the vague impression of a bow: a tip of his head and his left hand twitching towards his waist. Ignis watches him leave and the door fall shut behind him, heavy and implacable. He doesn’t want to look at the King. He has to look at the King. 

His trousers are unzipped, his hand cupping the hard line of his cock in his briefs. Ignis’ eyes are drawn to the Ring of the Lucii on his finger, and now that he’s looking he can’t make himself look away. A lump sits heavy in his throat, and his cheeks feel tight from drying tears. 

The King gets his cock out. “It’s not quite proper,” he says, his fingers curling around the base, “but it would never do for the future queen’s mouth to be dirtied, and no one needs to find out.” Ignis watches him move between his thighs, his own chest heaving in his peripheral vision as he looks at the head of the King’s cock, wet with pre and the foreskin peeled back. “Right, Ignis?” 

He’s already lined up at the open gape of Ignis’ hole when Ignis finds the coordination to give a miserable, “Yes, Your Majes—” and the ragged cry the King’s cock drags from his throat as it enters him swallows up the end of the word.


End file.
